by P. N. Elrod
“I—I—well, that is . . . ?”
“Exactly. It’s not as though she can send you to Tyburn. You’re your own man, now. Who is she to dictate to you any more?”
“Well, that is . . . when you put it that way . . . .” Oliver arched one brow and squared his shoulders. “I mean, well, damnation, I am my own man now, aren’t I? There’s no reason to dance a jig every time she snaps her fingers, is there?”
“Not at all.”
He nodded vigorously. “Right, then. I’ll dash off a letter and inform her when to expect us.”
“Excellent!”
Behind him, Elizabeth tapped her fingertips together in silent applause for me, breaking off when Oliver wheeled around to get her approval. She folded her hands and offered one of her more radiant smiles of admiration, which was enough to send him forth to the task like a knight into battle for his lady.
“Be sure to send it,” I added to his departing back.
He stopped short and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. Well, yes, of course.”
“Are you ever going to talk to him about your condition?” Elizabeth asked sotto voce after he’d gone.
“When the time and circumstances are right. There’s not been much chance for it, y’know.”
She snorted, recalling perhaps, my bad temper getting in the way of things. “I know you’ll do it when you’re ready, but don’t let it lapse too long. It’s unfair and inconsiderate to Oliver.”
“Indeed. I’ll find the right moment, I promise.”
“Tonight?”
“Ah, no. His head will be filled with unhappy thoughts about the coming interview. Not the best of times to turn his world upside down about me. Let’s get this crisis out of the way first.”
“All right. You’ve got the wind up about her, I must say. Is there anything I should know?”
I tried my best to explain Aunt Fonteyn, knowing that anything I could recall would be inadequate to the reality. “She’s a lot like Mother, but worse.”
“Oh, dear God . . . .”
“Yes. Oliver’s perfectly right. I’m afraid we’re in for it.”
* * *
We did not ignore Oliver’s advice to prepare for the worst, but beyond fetching out and putting on our most sober clothes the following evening, there wasn’t that much to do. At least Oliver and Elizabeth could bolster themselves with brandy; I was denied that luxury. Oliver found it puzzling, but again, I urged him to pay no attention. Elizabeth, having heard dire tales about our aunt, had too much to think about to grant me her usual frown for the liberty I’d taken upon his will.
We piled into the carriage that had been sent from Fonteyn House and rode in heavy silence. I though that standing with bound hands in an open cart surrounded by jeering crowds might have been more appropriate to our mood. We arrived at our destination, however, without fanfare and much too quickly.
Fonteyn House had been designed to impress those who viewed it from without rather than to provide comfort to those living within, an architectural reflection of the family itself. The rooms were large, but cold rather than airy, for windows were few and obscured with curtains to cut the drafts. When I’d first come here four years past, I’d commented to Oliver on the general gloominess of the place, thus learning that nothing much had been changed since Grandfather Fonteyn’s death years before. The house was likely to remain so for the life of its present guardian, Elizabeth Therese Fonteyn Marling.
Once inside again after so long an absence, I saw this to be true, for nothing had been altered. I rather expected the same might be said for Aunt Fonteyn when the time came for our audience.
An ancient footman with a face more suited to grave digging than domestic service ushered us into the main hall and said that Mrs. Marling would send for us shortly.
“What’s this foolishness?” Elizabeth whispered when he’d gone.
“It’s meant to be a punishment,” said Oliver, “because I was so impertinent as to insist on changing the time of this gathering.”
“Then let us confound her and entertain ourselves. Jonathan has told me that you have an excellent knowledge of the paintings here. Would you be so kind as to share it with me?”
Oliver gave her to understand he would heartily enjoy that distraction and, pointing out one dark portrait after another, introduced her to some of our long dead ancestors. I followed along slowly, hands clasped behind, not much interested in the lecture since I’d heard it before. Oliver paused in his recital when the doors leading to the main parlor opened, but instead of the footman come to fetch us, some other guests emerged. I thought I recognized a few faces, but no one paid us any mind, intent as they were themselves to leave.
“Hm. More cousins,” said Oliver, scowling. “There’s the great bear Edmond and the fetching Clarinda. Remember her, Jonathan? Very lively company, and just as well, since her husband’s such a rotten old stick.”
Edmond Fonteyn wasn’t that old, but his sour and surly disposition always made him seem so.
“Yes, I do remember. Lively company, indeed,” I murmured.
“Really?” asked Elizabeth. “Lively in what way?”
“Oh—er—just lively,” he said, shrugging. “Clarinda knows all the best fashions, all the dances and games, that sort of thing. How she and Edmond get along is a major mystery, for the man never has time for any frivolity. Mother doesn’t like her, but Clarinda was married to Mother’s favorite brother’s son and provided him with an heir. The poor boy got sent away to school several years back when his father died; I doubt if he’s ever seen his little half-brother.”
“I’m sorry, Oliver, but you’ve quite lost me. Who is Edmond?”
“Clarinda’s second husband. He’s a distant Fonteyn cousin. When Clarinda became widowed, he put forth whatever charm he possessed and managed to marry her. It pleased Mother, not so much that Clarinda had a protector but that her grandnephew had no need to change his name. As for her newest grandnephew, Mother ignores him, and he’s well off for it. Doubtless he’ll be packed off to school when the time comes. Mother dislikes having children about.”
The people in the hall donned cloaks against the cold outside. They should have retained them for protection from the chill of Aunt Fonteyn. One of the more graceful figures looked in our direction. Cousin Clarinda, without a doubt. She nodded to Oliver and Elizabeth, who offered a slight bow in return. Then she cocked her head at me. I somberly bowed in my turn. She smiled ever so slightly, and I hoped that the dimness of our surroundings would prevent anyone noticing the color creeping into my cheeks. She favored me a moment longer than I found comfortable, then turned back to her husband. Edmond paid her no mind, concentrating instead upon me. There was a strange heat in his dark-eyed glare, and I wondered if he knew. I bowed to him, but got none back. A bad sign, that.
He broke off to hustle Clarinda out the door. A very bad sign. It was likely that he did know, or at least strongly suspected. Perhaps his reaction was the same for all the men who could count themselves to be admirers of his beautiful wife. If so, then I need not feel so alone in the face of Edmond’s ill regard.
Besides, the cause was well worth it, I thought, turning my attention inward to the past and allowing sweet memory to carry me back to a most unforgettable celebration of the winter holidays . . . specifically, my first Christmas in England.
* * *
I was to spend the Yuletide at Fonteyn House and, despite Oliver’s mitigating presence, had come to regard the idea with the same enthusiasm one might reserve for acquiring a blister. I hoped the experience would heal into a simple callous on the memory, leaving no lingering scars. And so I joined with a hundred or more Fonteyns, Marlings and God knows what other relations as they merged to cluck over the deaths, coo at the births, shake their heads at the marriages, and gape at me, their colonial cousin. It was Aunt Fonteyn’s idea to call this annual gath
ering, as it provided an excellent opportunity for her to inflict the torture of her presence equally throughout the family.
I was promptly cornered by the men and subjected to an interrogation not unlike my last round of university exams. They were most interested in politics and wanted my opinion of the turmoil going on between the Colonies and the Crown. I told them that it was a damned nuisance and the pack of troublemakers calling themselves the Continental Congress should be arrested for sedition and treason and hanged. Since my heart was in my words, this resulted in much backslapping and a call for drink to toast my good health and that of our king.
They also wanted to know all about my home, asking, like my new friends at Cambridge, the same dozen or so questions over and over. A pattern emerged first been set by Oliver as they expressed exaggerated concern over Indian attacks and displayed a serious underestimation of the level of civilized comfort we enjoyed. They were quite astonished to learn of the existence of a theater house in New York. Some colonists lived in isolated forts in constant fear of the local natives, or hand-to-mouth in crude huts, but I was not one of them. The only hardship I’d suffered up to that point in my life had been Mother’s return from Philadelphia.
Unlike Oliver, they weren’t interested in the truth of things when I tried to correct them on a few of their strange misconceptions. Dispelling the romantic illusions of a reluctant audience turned out to be a frustrating and exhausting exercise. It also made me feel miserably homesick for Father, Elizabeth, Jericho, Rapelji and oh, God, so many others. This stab of loneliness led to another as I wistfully thought of Nora. She elsewhere, having remained behind in Cambridge. Her aunt, Mrs. Poole, had developed a cough and needed close care lest it become worse.
It just wasn’t fair, I grumbled to myself, then halfheartedly looked for distraction from my mood.
I made friends with the cousins of my own age easily enough, though several of the girls were eagerly pushed in my direction by their ambitious mothers. Apparently they’d developed hopeful ideas of getting closer to my pending share of Grandfather Fonteyn’s money by way of an advantageous marriage. I suppose I could have gathered them together and told them to cease wasting their time, my heart belonged to another. But something as logical and straightforward as that would have offended them, and I knew better than to give offense to such a crowd. Some acting was required, so I was ingratiating, painfully polite, conservative in talk, and careful to comport myself in a dignified manner, for every eye was upon me. Anything out of the ordinary would certainly be passed on to Oliver’s mother, and I was keen to avoid her displeasure at all times.
Actually, I was just keen to avoid her, period.
In pursuit of this aim I finally quit the crowded rooms to seek peaceful sanctuary, trying to remember how to get around in her huge house again. My recollection of the initial tour Oliver gave me earlier that year was fairly fogged, no doubt due to the brandy I had by that point consumed.
Brandy sounded like just the thing to get me through the rest of the evening. Surely, I thought, I could bribe one of the servants to produce a bottle and guide me to a spot well away from the rest of the family in general and the threat of Aunt Fonteyn in particular. The problem was choosing the right fellow. An error in character judgment on my part and all would be lost before it could even begin. It was well known that Aunt Fonteyn questioned the servants on matters of conduct concerning their betters, the suspicious hag.
There was one man that Oliver trusted. If I could just come up with his name . . . . So many names had been thrust at me today. Given time, I’d get it. I had a picture in my mind of a rat on a shelf or something like that. Long ago my peerless tutor Rapelji had taught me to associate one thing with another as a spur to memory. Rat on a shelf. . . no, rat on a cliff. Radcliff, that was the fellow. Excellent. Relief was at hand.
While busy thinking this through, I found I’d wandered from the busiest rooms into one of the remoter halls and by accident had gained at least half of what I desired. I wasn’t exactly alone, though, not if one wished to count the dozen or so family portraits hanging from the walls. I snarled back at some of the poxy faces glowering down at me and gave thanks to God that I took after Father for my looks rather than the Fonteyn men.
At the far end of the hall a door opened. The light here was poor; the windows were narrow and the day outside dark and dull. I made out the form of a woman as she entered. She paused, spied me, then pulled the door closed behind her. Heavens. Yet another female relative with a daughter, I thought. She floated toward me, her wide skirts rustling and shoes tapping loud upon the length of floor between us.
“Dear Cousin Jonathan,” she said with a joy-filled and decidedly predatory smile.
How many daughters does this one have? I thought. But she did not seem nearly old enough. I struggled to come up with her name. That I was her cousin was no clue—the whole house was positively crawling with cousins of all sorts. It had something to do with wine . . . claret . . . ah . . . .
“Cousin Clarinda,” I said smoothly and bowed over her hand. Deep in my mind I once again blessed old Rapelji for that useful little trick. But I was out of practice, since her last name eluded me. She could be a Fonteyn or a Marling. Probably a Fonteyn from that eager hunter’s look she wore. Still, she was graceful as a girl, with a slim figure and a striking face. How was it that I could have possibly overlooked her?
She slipped her arm through mine. “The other rooms are so crowded and noisy, don’t you think? I had to get away for a breath of air. How nice we should end up in the same place,” she concluded brightly, inviting me to agree with her.
“Indeed, ma’am, but I have no desire to intrude upon your meditations. . . .” Before I could begin a gentle disengagement from her, her other hand came around to reinforce her grip. We, or rather she, started to slowly stroll down the hall. I had to walk with her to be polite.
“Nonsense. It is a positive treat that I should have you to myself for a few minutes. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed hearing you speak about your home so far away.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you.” I’d been unaware that she’d even been present.
“I’m unclear on one thing: do you call it Long Island or Nassau Island?”
“Both. Many people use both names for the same plot of land.”
“Is it not confusing?”
“No, we all know what island it is.”
“I meant to strangers.”
“Hadn’t really thought of it, ma’am.”
“Please, you must call me Clarinda. As cousins, we need not be so formal, you know.” She squeezed my arm. If affection might be measured by such pressure, then she seemed to be very fond of me.
“Certainly, Clarinda.”
“Oh, I do like the way you say my name. It must be the oratory training you get at the university.”
Even when the flattery was all too obvious, I was not immune to it, and her smile was both charming and encouraging. I stood a little straighter and volunteered an amusing story about an incident at Cambridge having to do with a debate I’d successfully argued. I hadn’t quite gotten to the end of it when we ran out of hall. It terminated with a sitting room that had been stripped of seats; the chairs had been moved elsewhere in the house where they were more needed. All that remained was a broad settee too heavy to lift and a few small tables.
“What a pleasant place this is!” Clarinda exclaimed, breaking away from me to look around.
I didn’t share her opinion, but nodded to be amiable. The draperies were partly drawn, and the gray light seeping past them hardly worth mentioning. The fireplace was bare, leaving the chamber chill and damp. A bust of Aristotle, or maybe it was one of the Caesars, smiled warily from the mantel. His was so far the most friendly expression I’d seen represented in the art treasures of the house.
“It is just the kind of restful room one needs now and then and wh
en social demands become too hectic,” she continued. “It’s quiet and private, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.” Since she was evidently so distracted by the, ah, allure of the place, I concluded she had no interest in hearing the rest of my story. This would be the best time to make my bows and go hunt up Radcliff, but before I could get away Clarinda seized my arm again.
“You know, you are not at all what Therese led us to expect.”
Good God, what had Aunt Fonteyn been telling them? Despite my good record at Cambridge, she’d not relinquished the preconceptions set up by my mother’s letters, so what . . . ?
“I thought you’d be some horrid, hulking rustic, and instead I meet a handsome and polished young gentleman with most perfect manners and a dignified bearing.”
“Er . . . ah, thank you. You’re very kind.” She’d maneuvered herself directly in front of me, and I could not help but glance right into her brilliant eyes. It is amazing how much may be read from a single, steady look. She held me fixed in place until, like the sun breaking through an especially thick cloud, I suddenly divined her intent.
I was at first unbelieving, then doubtful, then shocked, then highly interested. The interest was almost instantly dampened by a worried thought for Nora. What would she think? I wavered and wondered, then considered that she had time and again expressed her repugnance for any kind of jealousy. She seemed to harbor no ill feelings toward those of her courtiers who saw other women. Taking that as an example that the principles she asked of us also applied to herself, I was certainly free to do as I liked. On the other hand, I—we—were special to each other. In our time together she’d not slept with another man, nor I with another woman, though I had, admittedly, a lack of opportunity for encountering women within the sheltering walls of the university.
And here was a definite opportunity. And I was intrigued. And flattered. Perhaps I should at least hear the lady out before refusing.
